


Rowdy Girl, Sick Boy

by Kyla_Wren



Series: Rowdy Girl, Sick Boy 'Verse [1]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, DrummerWolf, F/M, Pararibulitis (Dirk Gently)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 16:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15319548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyla_Wren/pseuds/Kyla_Wren
Summary: Role-swap AU where Amanda Brotzman is an energy vampire and Martin is a shut-in with a nerve disease.When Amanda and her Rowdy Boys save him from a public pararibulitus attack, Martin’s life is doomed to get a lot more interesting.





	1. Chapter 1

“Thanks for coming over.”

Martin pulled himself up to sit on the kitchen counter. Bea smiled at him, swinging her rainbow hair over her shoulder and turning on the tap. 

“I’m glad you’ve been cooking, at least,” his foster sister squinted at the pan in her hand, trying to identify the remains.

“Scrambled eggs.”

“Oh, that’s what it is. Better than take-out, at least!”

Martin pushed an empty rice carton behind him before she could spot it. “Right.”

“You need a maid or something. Ha. If only we were rich, right?” she gave the pan an experimental scrub. “Hey, maybe you could get a friend to come over sometime to do this kind of thing.”

“Hard to keep friends when you ain’t never leave the house.” Martin rubbed his temples. “You don’t have to do the dishes, you know. You can just leave them.”

“No biggie,” Bea redoubled her efforts. Unspoken was the knowledge between them that Martin had experienced an unusually rough pararibulitis attack when washing a knife last month. Since then the dishes had kind of… piled up.

He sighed and pulled his hood up, running his hand down through his mohawk and glancing at the tv in the sitting room. The whole house could use some work. He did what he could, and didn’t have too many possessions to clutter the place up with, but it was dusty. Most of the furniture was still in its place from when their foster mother had passed away and left them the house. Everything left over was old-fashioned and beige. Martin’s little islands of beer bottles and paperbacks made it look like a squatter had taken up residence in a couple of rooms, which was close to the truth.

Bea wiped her hands on a towel.

“Hey, do you mind taking a look at the Beastmobile while I’m here? It’s been making a funny noise when I turn.”

“Sure.”

The Beastmobile was a rainbow-painted ice cream truck, and the main source of income for Bea. She ran it with her girlfriend Tina, a goofball ex-cop who got along with everyone. Their organic frozen desserts were very popular in downtown Seattle.

The siblings walked into the garage. True to its name, the Beastmobile took up most of the room. Martin pushed the truck’s side window open and reached into the freezer, pulling out a red popsicle.

“Raspberry-lingonberry-honeysuckle!” Bea said with pride.

He grunted and gave it a slurp, popping the hood open.

“Can you fix it?” she asked without waiting.

“Haven’t even looked inside yet. But you know I can.”

Martin was something of an expert. He had been a vintage auto mechanic before he was diagnosed, working in a specialty shop. Having to leave his job had been the hardest part of his illness. At least he still had this crazy truck to tinker with from time to time.

Bea put on some of her corny pop music and danced around like a gremlin while he got to work. He didn't mind. It was nice to have the company.

\------------------------------

On the other side of town, the Oh No van ran out of gas. 

Amanda lurched in the driver's seat as they sputtered to a halt. The gas station entrance was about half a block away.

“Damn. So close,” she twisted around to peer into the back. “Sorry boys. Give me a hand?”

The Rowdies were playing cards in the back. They got up with cheerful whoops and hollers and burst out of the back, ready to push. Amanda rolled down the window. While she steered the man-powered van she inhaled deeply, tasting the rainy air.

There was always a reason for the van to stop. Most of the time it didn't even need gas to run, much less any maintenance. If they had to pause in this town, it was because the universe wanted them to be there.

She tasted… something. Faint, coming from the West. For a second her black-smoked eyelids fluttered closed, focusing all of her attention on that shimmering thread.

Something delicious was out there.

\--------------------------

The repair was quick and easy, just like he expected. Martin slammed the hood shut and flicked his popsicle stick into the recycling. He grabbed a rag and wiped the oil off his hands.

“All set? Awesome! Man, I'm so lucky to have my own personal mechanic,” Bea quipped, spinning in a circle.

“Yeah, it's ‘bout all I'm good for,” he drew the rag away, leaving a smear of blood.

Martin halted, opening his hands with slow unease. They were cut deep - down to the bone - in ugly gashes across his palms. Pain bloomed, catching up with the visual.

Bea looked over. Her brother had frozen, silent and staring at his own hands. She hurried to his side, recognizing the signs.

“Whatever you're feeling, it's not real,” she told him, grabbing his pill bottle from a garage shelf. It was lucky, and sad, that he kept them all around the house.

Martin said nothing. He was breathing fast and hard through his nose. His hands were shaking. His sister put the pill directly in his mouth with practiced ease and he swallowed it dry.

It took five agonizing minutes for the medicine to set in and the hallucination to fully fade.

Bea made him sit on the couch and brought him some water. She tightened the bandana in her hair and chewed on her lip, a habit she had kept since they were children.

“You know, I keep thinking about this thing one of my customers said to me.”

“A customer?”

“He always comes to the truck when we’re in Electric Town and gets a milkshake and talks for a while. I don't know his name so I call him Bibbit. Tina likes to call him my boyfriend.”

“Hm. Sounds like a real weirdo.”

“Oh, he's not hitting on me, _trust_ me. I think he'd be terrified of the idea. But I did mention to him that my brother has pararibulitis…”

Martin rolled his eyes. He wasn't annoyed, but it was so typical of Bea to blab personal information to someone who she didn't even know the name of. 

“And, you know, he'd never heard of it, so I explained it to him… and he asked me why you stay in the house.”

Martin gave her a look that he hoped could travel through time and space and let this Bibbit guy know he was an idiot.

“Did you tell him it's because any damn little thing could set it off? Breeze could blow too hard and make me think I was ripped inside out or some shit…” he grumbled.

“Well, he pointed out that since the disease is inside you, you might as well go outside. Like, the attacks will happen no matter where you are, so you might as well go where you want to be!”

“Ain't that a romantic thought,” Martin ignored the water in favor of a stale beer left on his coffee table.

For all his cynicism, the idea stuck with him. It turned over and over in his mind after Bea left and the sky darkened.

\-----------------------

“It's definitely coming from that house.”

Amanda narrowed her eyes at the nondescript little rancher and pointed over the steering wheel. After a night of driving, sometimes in circles, they had traced the source of that tantalizing mark.

Gripps was in the passenger seat, painting black polish on the nails of her right hand. Vogel and Cross leaned over their shoulders, breathing in. 

“Smells like cupcakes, Boss,” Vogel was on the verge of drooling. “With frosting and sprinkles.”

“Steak,” Cross said. “And lobster.”

“Surf And Turf.”

She gave them a look. “Reign it in, boys. It smells like _pain_. I'm a little interested in what's causing it.” 

She turned up the radio. The Oh No Van rocked on its wheels. There was motion in the window of the house - someone was peering out between the venetian blinds.

\---------------

What was that, some kind of murder van? Crust punks in the deep suburbs?

Martin let the blinds fall closed. Who the hell even knew what was real and what wasn't anymore. He had a strong sensation of being watched from that van, but he ignored it the same way he tried to ignore every sensory input that smacked of strangeness.

He put down the weight in his hand. Lifting was risky and could be a trigger, but exercise was one of the few things the doctors said could help. He did it with begrudging dedication.

Speaking of healthy habits, Martin really wanted a cigarette. It was raining, but he had sworn to Bea that he'd never smoke in the house. He put a hoodie on and left it unzipped, then shoved on his motorcycle boots and left them unlaced. He glanced in the mirror near the door, grabbing his lighter and keys.

He looked tired. The sides of his head needed shaving, dark roots were growing at the base of his white-bleached mohawk. His beard was neat, since he was a bit neurotic about keeping it trimmed, but otherwise… Like the house, his appearance could use some work. Also like the house, he just didn't have the energy to care much. 

He put on some sunglasses and called it good.

The original plan to smoke on the front porch fell through when the graffiti-covered murder van continued to exist outside.

He walked down the street, shielding his lighter flame from the rain and frowning.

The _probably real and not hallucinatory_ van crawled down the street after him.

What was their fuckin’ problem? Was it a van full of people who hated alternative hairstyles? 

Martin walked a little faster, hoping they would pass him by. He thought about the last time he'd been in a fight. It had been within the year, and he'd won. He had a bad habit of finding people in trouble and sticking up for them, often getting a black eye for his effort. When the disease got bad he’d stopped going out to bars and shows and parties, and the number of those encounters had dropped dramatically. 

Could he hold his own in a fight against an unknown number of assholes? It depended. If he had an attack during it he would be in real trouble.

The van got a little too close behind him.

With a growl of annoyance he dropped his cigarette and darted across a neighbor's lawn, vaulting their fence and zipping back into the house.

\------------------

“You spooked him,” Cross chastised, poking her shoulder.

“He shouldn't be scared of a little old van,” Amanda grumbled, rolling to a halt. “He’s like, a big strong punk guy.”

_Handsome, too._ She didn't say it out loud, but the others sensed the thought. The Rowdy 3 were connected by something stronger than blood, and were sensitive to each other's emotions.

“I like him,” Vogel said, supportive. “He seems like a cool dude. Cool hair!”

“I wonder why he's so sad,” she murmured, leaning on her elbows.

\--------------------

24 hours later, the mental staredown continued.

Martin looked out the window and growled, feeling like he was cracking. It just sat there, threatening, and yet not making a move.

He was a patient man, but this was ridiculous. 

Martin stood up, full of repressed energy. He stalked outside, picking up a brick from the garden and hurling it with all his strength at the van. He went back inside and slammed the door.

He put his hands in his pockets, imbued with a sudden calm. Even if the police showed up in a few minutes to arrest him, the satisfaction was worth it.

There was a crash. He walked into the living room. There, surrounded by broken glass, was the same brick he had thrown. It was wrapped with a note.

_Hi._

Martin stared at it for a minute. The smallest of smiles curled his lip.

“Cute,” he muttered.

\--------------------------

Something felt different today.

Martin woke up in a tangle of sheets and stared at the ceiling for a moment. He put on his glasses and the slanting light took on a new focus.

With a start he jumped out of bed and lunged for the window, still undressed.

The van was still out there.

He smiled again. Twice in two days.

\-------------------------------

“Hey.”

“Hey! Bro! What's up? Are you okay?”

Martin could hear the ice cream truck jingle and the chatter of people on the other line.

“Yeah, yeah. Don't worry.”

He was walking down the street, sporting a freshly groomed and dyed mohawk and wearing his good clothes. He had even taken it upon himself to wear the bracelets and rings that made him feel more like himself again. 

“I just called because… I'm going to the store.”

He felt stupid as soon as he said it, but Bea’s reaction made him glad he had called.

“Oh my god! Seriously? That's great! Will you be all right?”

The van growled behind him. Martin turned with a smile and flipped it off.

“Yeah. Somethin’ tells me it's gonna be fine.”

\-----------------------

Martin walked around without a basket, hands in his pockets. It was trippy to be out, in public, in a big place full of strangers and different lighting from his living room.

He felt good. If he could manage this, maybe he could try going to Bea’s apartment. Work his way up to going to a bar.

Pathetic, maybe, but he felt _hope_.

He took a free cheese sample. Cheddar. Not bad. Normal people did this sort of thing all the time.

Maybe he would just grab some fruit. It always annoyed him how grocery delivery meant he couldn't check his own mangoes and shit.

In about fifteen minutes he was done, carrying an armload of properly ripened nectarines and plums and a loaf of sourdough. He felt almost giddy with relief. It was all he could do not to announce to the cashier that he had just finished his first shopping trip in ten months. He resisted, thinking that she would assume he was an ex-convict fresh out of prison.

He reached for his wallet. His hand felt hot.

_Spoke too soon,_ he thought, looking down at his arm. Flames were creeping up his sleeve. He was burning.

With a huge effort he gritted his teeth and struggled his medication out. The fire was spreading, leaping to both arms. His flesh felt like it was melting. The bottle fell, pills scattering over the linoleum. It was the last thing he saw before the flames engulfed him.

\-------------------

“Hey, look at that asshole spazzin’ out. High as shit.”

“I thought this neighborhood was too nice for that kind of thing.”

“It's pretty funny.”

The doors of the Oh No Van slammed open. Amanda swung her crowbar and smacked the phone out of the hand of the nearest spectator. The other members of the Rowdy 3 administered justice to the rest of the crowd of unfriendly bystanders.

She stomped past them and up to the man who was on his knees, clawing at his own skin and making the noises of a wounded animal. He stared up at her with anguished eyes. 

She touched his cheek with a gentle motion and whistled for her boys.

\-----------------------

In the confusion of extreme pain and mortal fear, Martin had been barely aware of the shouting of the cashier, or of his stumbling journey outside. Some tiny, distant part of himself felt regret and anger and disappointment, but even that was a whisper in the maelstrom.

He felt a point of cool relief on his burning skin - the side of his face. His vision swam and cleared enough to see a group encircling him. Three men who looked like rogues, and a punk girl in their lead. She was intensely beautiful, which was the only coherent thought his brain could muster. Blue light and smoke were swirling around them.

The fire was leaving. Pain was draining, _rushing_ out of him. A series of bizarre images flashed across his brain. Now, later, before - people he had never met - fractals spinning and growing. Time stretched and snapped like a rubber band.The cosmos drank him in and spit him out in a violent slurry of stars.

Martin sat up in his garage. There was a brown paper bag of nectarines and plums and sourdough by his side.

“Whoa.”


	2. Bonus!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Bonus Scene, set in the afternoon right after Bea leaves with the repaired Beastmobile.

“Oh shit, you hear that?” Cross sat upright on the roof of the van, where he had been napping in the sun.

Amanda paused in filing her nails. She tilted her head, listening. Gripps’ pencil slowed on his drawing pad.

“ICE CREAM TRUCK,” Vogel bellowed, running up the hill from the creek. He blew past them, running halfway down the street before turning around and trotting back up to Amanda. “Can I please have two dollars?”

“Sure,” she handed over the crumpled bills. “Actually, I’m gonna come with you.”

They walked down the road together, towards a multicolored monstrosity of a vehicle. The way it was attracting neighborhood kids you would think it had its own gravitational pull.

“It’s the Oh No van’s little sister,” Vogel pointed out, pleased with himself.

“Ha! Yeah, it totally is. Look at the girl in the driver’s seat. Her hair is awesome.”

\-------------

Bea adjusted her aviators and looked out at the crowd with a huge grin.

“Let me know if you need help back there, Babe!” she called over her shoulder.

Tina gave her a thumbs up, eyes sparkling next to her little star tattoos. They tended to trade off the duties of driving and serving, unless it got really crazy.

Bea leaned on her open window, daydreaming about new flavors. She saw two figures in black approaching, one of them bouncing up and down on his heels. They looked a little rougher than her regular customer base, at least in a visual sense.

When they got closer she saw that they were both filthy, like people who had just tumbled down a dirt hill and then slept in a car for two days. The girl was beautiful, with a shaved undercut and raccoon eyeshadow. Her friend was a little rockabilly chipmunk, with a big white smile. Both wore leather jackets that had also been through the hypothetical hill rolling. Instead of being threatening, they seemed to Bea to exude a force field of happy energy. Of course, Bea had a knack for seeing the overwhelming good in everyone.

“I can’t even remember the last time I ate human food,” she thought she heard the girl say to her companion.

“Beer last night?”

“I said ate, not drank,” the girl squeezed his arm fondly. They joined the back of the line.

Bea raised her eyebrows. She decided to flag them down.

“Hey, guys in the back! This window, please!”

They moved over to her, a bit confused.

“Adults get a seperate window,” Bea made up. “What will you have?”

 

“Would you mind just picking flavors for us, please? You guys have like a million listed,” the girl chewed her thumbnail, peering at the chalk sign inside the truck.

“We take a really long time picking flavors,” the guy said, eyes wide. 

“Sure! I love that. It’s like reading someone’s aura,” Bea waved her hand in front of them like a magician. She waggled her brows and reached back into the freezer. Tina gave her a questioning look, which she answered with a wink.

She pulled out one lime-basil-mint and one confetti-passionfruit-cream pop.

“You look like a citrus girl,” Bea said with a big smile, handing down the vivid green rectangle. “My brother’s the same way.”

“Who’s your brother?” the guy had his mouth open and ready before the speckled popsicle was even in his hand.

“Vogel,” the girl rolled her eyes. “That’s a weird question.”

The one called Vogel shrugged, unrepentant.

“Oh, he’s great. I’ll show you his photo,” Bea turned to dig in her purse. It never occurred to her that anyone would not want to hear about Martin, or Tina, or her cat, and kept photos of all of them in her wallet. “Hey, those are on the house, by the way.”

The girl waved her hands. “Oh, no, it’s okay! We have money!”

The boy wiggled a handful of wrinkled bills as proof. 

Bea shook her head. “Nah, I like the look of you guys. Here he is - ain’t he cute? That’s how he would talk. He’s got a Southern accent.”

She passed the photo down. Vogel nodded in approval and gave it to the girl, whose eyes got a little rounder.

“Why’s he got a different accent from you?” Vogel asked, chomping away at his pop. His face contorted in a moment of brain freeze, and then relaxed. He went on chomping.

“Different parents. We were foster kids together. He joined the family when I was eight and he was ten.”

The girl was holding the photo close to her face, transfixed. Bea was pleased as punch. Poor Martin - he really was a handsome dude. He was never going to get the attention he deserved, locked away in the house. That photo was a candid she had captured of him outside, head half-turned and pale eyes lit by the sun.

“You should keep it!”

“Ah, what?”

“Yeah, totally. It’s just a printout. I have it digital, I can make a million more if I want.”

“Uh. Okay,” the girl looked like she was struggling between being polite, actually wanting the photo, and not wanting to look like a weirdo. 

Bea decided to make it easier on her.

“All done back there, Tina?”

“Yes ma’am!” the blonde woman shut the service window and scooted up to the front passenger seat.

“Ok. Gotta go, Kids. It was fun chatting!”

“Bye Rainbow!” Vogel said, waving. 

The girl lifted a hand as well.

“Thanks…”

Bea started the engine and pulled out, raising the jingle volume just a little.

When they were a block away, Tina turned to her.

“Babe, did you just give those guys two free pops and a photo of your brother?”

“Maybe. I had a good feeling about them!”

Her girlfriend just laughed.

\------------------------------------

The Rowdy 3 were enjoying an evening bonfire before setting off to follow their noses. They all felt it now, the pull of the mystery scent in the West. But first, there was a dumpster full of mannequin parts behind a store that absolutely needed their attention.

The boys ran around, lighting fiberglass parts on fire and screaming. To Amanda it was just background noise, as soothing as rain. She was sitting by the fire, smoking a cigarette and staring at the photo from the ice cream truck.

Who was this guy? She felt the same magnetic field from the photo as she did from the scent. The smoke she exhaled spun around it.

_I’m a leaf on the stream of creation._

_And I’m floating towards you._

**Author's Note:**

> Martin’s song for this fic is Social Distortion’s _Sick Boys_


End file.
